Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius - Kevin J Anderson [190]
Though his crew had been designated a military unit, they possessed only three flintlock rifles among them, and Verne was forced to supply all of their food out of his own pocket. A single tiny cannon had been mounted on the bow of the yacht; whenever it was fired, the gun barked like a poodle.
For week upon dreary week, the Saint Michel sailed in a tight pattern, ready to meet the Prussians and terrified lest that day should ever arrive. The invaders had full-fledged warships filled with cannons and professional soldiers. Verne had no idea what his little yacht and its single gun could be expected to do against such an attack. Flee, probably.
In an odd way, though, the change of routine was a welcome balm for his writing life. Leaving the scrawny veterans in charge of the patrol, Verne could retreat to the captain’s cabin with his notebooks and journals -- and he was able to write. During those tedious months he completed several new novels in longhand, though they would have to wait for publication until the end of the war and a return to peace and prosperity.
Pierre-Jules Hetzel had been trapped in Paris during the worsening siege. The publisher was forced to continue a correspondence with his author through “Vernian” means -- sending letters via balloon or carrier pigeon.
Verne did not think much about the political turmoil, which seemed so far away in Paris. He was here on his boat, which he loved . . . on the ocean, which he also loved . . . listening to the sound of waves and feeling the gentle sway of the currents. He was able to concentrate on his stories without the incessant interruptions of family life, without social responsibilities, without the noises of unruly Michel (who had already been dubbed “the terror of Le Crotoy” in the short time Verne had lived in the small port city).
As he sat back now, deep in thought at his small writing desk, Verne pondered a new novel about an enormous ocean liner so large that he titled the book A Floating City. He relished the quiet and solitude.
Until the loud clang of the Saint Michel’s warning bell shattered the late afternoon silence.
One of the white-haired soldiers hollered from the bow, and Verne heard the thump of running feet on deck. Someone retrieved the three flintlock weapons from the locker. Ragged voices issued orders, while others countermanded them.
Verne groaned. With a heavy sigh, he imagined it must be another false sighting. He closed his notebook and left his cabin, striding up to the main deck just in time to see two old veterans fiddling with the tiny cannon. They lit the fuse. Verne raised his hand, demanding to know what they were doing, but it was too late.
The small gun fired its two-pound ball with a sound like a child’s oversized popgun. The men cheered and raised their fists into the air, hurling obscenities and insults across the water. They pointed and danced and waved their hands.
Then Verne looked into the gathering dusk to see a three-masted enemy warship approaching, its gunports open and full-sized cannons emerging. Prussian navy men swarmed about like ants on the deck, preparing to capture or destroy the Saint Michel.
And his men had fired the tiny cannon in defiance.
“What have you done?” Verne gasped in horror. “You fools!”
The Prussian warship launched a broadside at them. All the cannons on its starboard hull blazed orange spitfire. Though the range was still great, cannonballs rained like meteorites into the water between the two ships. The warship adjusted her sails and bore down on Verne’s minuscule yacht.
“Turn us about, men,” he said. “Turn us about! Run for the shore.”
One of the wrinkled veterans pulled out his flintlock to fire a wild shot at the enemy, but others quickly realized the rashness of their action. The small yacht